


FUCK U I WANNA BE A WORM

by kimikoroi



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26258611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimikoroi/pseuds/kimikoroi
Summary: grnrnrhhrhr
Kudos: 5





	FUCK U I WANNA BE A WORM

In my garden there is a hole, dug six feet deep. It was carved out in a neat rectangular shape, the walls smoothed down with the sharp edge of a heavy metal shovel in heavy human hands. A bed of small rocks and pebbles had settled on the bottom, but with the absence of the weight of a body to push them back into their rightful place within the mud they tossed and turned restlessly all night.

When dark stormy clouds cast shadows over the moon and the wind was strong enough to batter my bedroom window with long clawing branches I heard them rolling like marbles on a hardwood floor, rattling with sharp clicks as they knock against each other.

I could tell that they were unhappy. So I would lay awake with wide bloodshot eyes staring at the yellowed paint peeling off my ceiling, whispering hoarse apologies into the stagnant air. 

There are things that shouldn't be disturbed from where they rest deep underneath our feet. They should stay buried, putrid soil pressing down on them relentlessly from all angles. 

I wish I could walk outside now and be wrapped in that suffocating warmth I crave so desperately, but I have a duty to fulfil before I do. I need to help people find their way back to where they should be.

In my garden there is a mound of dirt, where filthy fingers had ripped the earth's flesh from underneath the cold hard surface the night before the last. It was a messy job, done with frantic painful desperation, and met with equal agony from the mouth being pushed down into the dirt. Of course it hurts, but it must be done. 

I can still feel the indents in my hand where she bit me. Her jaw had clenched down hard enough for it to hurt, but her teeth were much more suitable for sucking on the sweet acidity of gentle decomposition, and of course she couldn't break the skin. I wouldn't have minded if she did. My hands weren't good for anything but digging now.

When I reached up to press my palms against my face it can feel how rough they've become, skin torn up and scabby. But my hands are the only parts of my body that I feel still belong to me.

My cheeks feel strangely smooth and waxy, solid enough for me to miss the softness of my cheeks, but malleable in a way that I would not be surprised if it began to warp under the pressure of my fingertips if I pressed hard enough. But there’s something else there too. The faint sensation of a writhing tissue, constantly churning together in never ending agitation.

It's hardly noticeable most of the time. but today it's almost unbearable. The desperate urge to tear puncture holes in the flimsy rubbery sack holding myself together and let my insides spill out into a squirming mess to be swallowed up by the mud. It's less of an itch and more of a sick twisting feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I know it won’t go away until it’s my time to rot.

With a sigh I walk over to the bathroom sink and let the water wash away some of the blood and grime from between my fingers, taking a moment to dig out chunks from underneath my stained nails while I was at it. I pat my hands dry on the towel hanging on the back of the door, paying no mind to the brownish stain now standing out against the stark white fibers as I move back into the bedroom.

I quickly get changed and head down into the kitchen where mold crawls up every inch of the wall from behind towering piles of festering tupperware containers. The rancid smell has attracted plenty of black fuzzy flies and the corners of my lips twitch with a small smile as I feel them brush against my neck as soon as I enter. The familiar buzzing is somewhat comforting and it feels nice to be so completely surrounded by the sound.

I wish I could spend the afternoon inside today, just laying against the creaking floorboards for hours breathing in the sour taste I've grown so accustomed to. But today is a working day, and I eventually find it in me to move from my spot next to the counter and swing open the back door with trembling hands.

A chilly breeze blows my matted hair over my eyes, and I recoil at the feeling, but keep moving forward nonetheless.

As I tread carefully over the bushes and brambles that block off the bottom corner of my garden, I hoist my duffel bag higher, lifting it away from the thorny branches already clinging onto the fabric of my jeans. It doesn't weigh as much as it did a few days ago, but I can already feel my body begin to ache by the time I reach the holes.

I stop in my tracks.

Two holes. 

One carved out in a neat rectangular shape, the other resembling a tunnel, barely 2 feet wide, surrounded by mounds of freshly deposited chalky soil. 

Fear rises like bile in my throat as I stare at where fingers had dragged themselves backwards through the top layer of dirt, marking the entrance to a hole that was not there this morning, and should not be here now.

In my garden there are two holes, one whole dug in, another dug out. The stones are rattling again but the air is still. There is a handprint on the ground and a hand on my back, pushing hard.

Then the stones are quiet once again, blissfully content as they nestle into that sweet wet warmth they missed so dearly. I didn't think it would be my time today, but the dirt is already raining down onto me with a soft pattering sound, so I close my eyes and smile again.

The soil is packed tightly but torturously slow. There is no way to escape, no way to reach the surface, my arms and legs are bound by the filth and will stay that way until I become the filth itself.

There aren't any holes in my garden. 

Just a girl, barely there, almost not, but a terrible weightlessness that I know she'll never escape. Good. She deserves it.


End file.
